


Of Windsor Knots and Polyester Fashion Failings

by DulcimerGecko



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, Gen, OMC's - Freeform, Parentlock, Post-Reichenbach, The James Holmes Chronicles, Ties, neckties
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-06
Updated: 2015-02-06
Packaged: 2018-03-08 05:10:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3196532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DulcimerGecko/pseuds/DulcimerGecko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"You’re still doing it wrong."</i> </p><p>  <i>John started in surprise at the unexpected voice, his hands stilling on the increasingly creased strip of fabric that marked his third, unsuccessful attempt at a decent Windsor knot. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Windsor Knots and Polyester Fashion Failings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [prettyvk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettyvk/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Crazy For Love](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1007697) by [prettyvk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettyvk/pseuds/prettyvk). 



> For [prettyvk](http://prettyvk.tumblr.com/), because I wrote to her about a truly random plot bunny that popped in my head, asking for permission to play in her AU with her character, and she graciously encouraged me to go for it. Thank you!
> 
> Also thanks to my darling friend, Rosencrantz, who looked at multiple iterations of this work and provided constrictive criticism and encouragement every time.
> 
> Spoiler alerts: This is set sometime around or after Ch. 32 of 'Crazy For Love'.

"You're still doing it wrong." 

John started in surprise at the unexpected voice, his hands stilling on the increasingly creased strip of fabric that marked his third, unsuccessful attempt at a decent Windsor knot. With a sigh, he gave up his efforts and looked in the mirror, where the spotless glass reflected the image of Sherlock's adopted son peering critically around the edge of the door frame that marked the entryway to Sherlock's bedroom. 

In the mirror, James' reflection wrinkled its nose, bemusement and fastidious fashion sense visibly warring on the owner's face—reading on the couch apparently forsaken in favor of surveillance and critiquing John's tie-knotting abilities. 

"Fine," John huffed, shooting an exasperated glance over his right shoulder at the dark-haired, besuited preteen watching him. He pulled the tie free and held it out. "Show me?" 

James slipped in and plucked the fabric from John's outstretched hand, his lips twisting in a grimace as his fingers made contact. "This isn't silk," he observed aloud, rubbing it between his right thumb and forefinger. He frowned. "Polyester? Really?" He shot John a look of offended disgust that John would make such a fashion faux pas. 

John huffed a laugh at his expression. "Yes, well, not all of us can afford bespoke suits and accessories like you and your dad." He gestured ruefully at James' immaculate jacket and trousers. "That suit that you're wearing? Probably would have been a few weeks' wages back when I was still practicing medicine officially. I only know that, because I've seen some of Sherlock's tailoring bills, the extravagant git." 

Ignoring him, James turned the tie over, running it through his fingers and grimacing at the wrinkles they encountered. "Ugh. Polyester. That's part of your problem, right here," he sneered. "Polyester ties don't hold their shape." Scrunching his nose, James started to crumple the offending tie into a ball. His lips twisted in a moue of disgust, but he froze at John's exclamation of annoyance. 

"Do you…have sentimental attachment to this?" James asked, slackening his grip and making an effort to smooth the new wrinkles he'd caused. His balance shifted, as he edged backwards, a minute movement enhanced by his suddenly wary eyes. 

John sighed, and shook his head. Mindful of James' history, he reached out slowly to pluck the offending article from James' grasp, and folded it neatly. "Not especially, no," John replied calmly. "But it was a birthday gift from my sister," he continued, "so it should be treated with at least a bit of respect." 

James relaxed at John's unthreatening body language, his shoulders losing their defensive hunch. Frowning, he glanced down at the neatly folded tie resting in John's hands and reached over to poke it gingerly. His gaze rose to meet John's and an eyebrow winged up in skepticism. "Your sister believes cheap ties are an acceptable gift?" 

"The fact that my sister got me anything last year is commendable," John said with a shrug, "so yes." 

"You don't like her," James remarked, tilting his head to the side in an oddly familiar, bird-like gesture. 

At John's surprised expression, James shrugged. "Your tone…and…she wasn't at the wedding…or the funeral." He hesitated briefly, before asking again. "Am I right? That you don't like her?" 

"Not especially, no," John agreed, his tone carefully neutral. "But that doesn't mean I don't love her, or respect her attempts…or appreciate her efforts." 

James frowned, his expression puzzled. "I…don't understand." He shifted closer, the fabric of his suit rustling softly. 

"It's not easy to explain," John acknowledged. "Harry and me don't get on…never have, not since we were kids…but she saved my arse a few years ago…cleaned up her act long enough to help me get sober again and keep me from offing myself after Sherlock's fall." John sighed, looking down at the tie he was holding. "To be fair, she doesn't much like me either," he continued. "She's a pacifist, and hates that I enlisted, but when I needed her—more so than when I was first discharged—she was there. If nothing else, I'm grateful for that." He shrugged his shoulders and blew out a rueful sigh. "So yeah," he concluded, "I've kept the ties as a reminder that as irresponsible and self-destructive as she normally is, she does care." 

James frowned, biting his lip absently as he apparently considered John's words. "Are all siblings like that?" he asked after a few moments, his tone quizzical. 

"Like what?" 

"Care, but don't get along? Sherlock and Mycroft insult each other constantly, and Sherlock said Mycroft said 'caring is not an advan—" 

John snorted. "Sherlock and Mycroft elevate the art of sibling rivalry to the level of a do-or-die campaign between Carl von Clausewitz and Erwin Rommel," he replied. "Don't believe—" 

"Who?" James interrupted. 

John blinked. "Famous military commanders and strategists," he explained. His brow furrowed in puzzlement. "I know you're well-read—Sherlock's mentioned your bookstore shopping adventures...Do you seriously not know who they are?" 

James shook his head. "I was only allowed to read books that Father approved of, and those names weren't mentioned in the volume of European history that Sherlock allowed me to buy." 

John pursed his lips, sighing at the notable gap in James' education and at editor oversights. "It's important military history," he explained. "Erwin Rommel—also known as the 'Desert Fox' was a German World War II field marshal, respected by the Axis and the Allies alike for his strategy and skills in tank warfare. And von Clausewitz stressed the psychological and political aspects of war, something that makes me think of Mycroft, with his dedication to Queen, country, and national security…Bloody publishers, overlooking a thing like that…" 

John paused, thinking over the titles he'd seen on Sherlock's bookshelves in the past. He'd seen multiple treatises on poisons, weapons, beekeeping, forensic anthropology and psychology. There was the occasional piece of children's literature—Pinocchio had been a surprise—but the few history texts had been mostly over general knowledge and were, once again, unlikely to contain detailed information for military topics beyond Normandy and the Blitz, and maybe Churchill and Hitler. "If you're really curious," John said after a moment, "We could go by the library and get you a card. In the meantime, I have a couple of biographies about Rommel and von Clausewitz both, back at Mary's and my house—" 

John's breath caught on the automatic descriptor, and he clenched his eyes shut; the sudden reminder of his new, widower reality making grief well up. After a moment, he exhaled slowly, forcing himself to continue. "Back at our house," he repeated. "I could lend them to you if you're interested, yeah?" 

James nodded, his eyes skimming over John's face before he gave him a hesitant smile. "Yes, I'd like that…please." He licked his lips, and then tilted his head sideways, eyes thoughtful. "So…" James repeated slowly, "some siblings can care and get along both?" 

"Yeah," John replied, gratefully latching on to the change in subject. "I knew a trio of sisters in uni, two years apart, always wearing each other's clothes and giggling as they finished each other's sentences. My mates and I, we called them 'the flock' since they were usually found together, surrounded by several other female friends." His lips quirked in reminiscence. "I also knew a pair of identical twins from a unit I served with," he continued with a fond smile at the memories invoked. "Ben and Jerry—after the American ice cream, apparently. Jesus… the names they'd call each other would make ME blush, but insult one, and the other'd plant his fist in your face before you'd finished talking."

James snickered, a quick wordless sound of amusement, and John smiled again as he turned back to the bureau. His smile faded as he set the tie aside on the polished wood surface and pulled open the drawer Sherlock had cleared for him to look for an appropriately conservative substitute. Harry's tastes generally ran towards garish, and Sherlock almost never wore ties, which meant his options for acceptable replacements were limited. Drumming his fingers on the smooth wood, John surveyed the colourful bands of fabric with a frown.

"Why are you putting on a tie at two in the afternoon anyways?" James asked, sidling closer and leaning over John's arm to peer into the drawer.

"I've a meeting with my solicitor at three thirty, and it'll take me at least thirty minutes to get there by cab, assuming the traffic cooperates."

"Oh." James's voice was quiet. "What for?"

"Paperwork," John answered shortly.

James' eyes flicked up, but John's closed expression apparently quelled his curiosity. 

After a moment of awkward silence, James reached into the open drawer, hand darting forward to grab a dark red tie that had been pushed into the very back, left-hand corner. Tugging it free, James held it against John's navy suit. "What about this one?" James asked, "it matches." He lowered his hand and inspected the tie carefully, frowning in puzzlement. "This one is silk," he observed, flipping it over to look at the label on the back, and blinking in surprise. "Gieves and Hawkes?" James read the tag aloud, his tone impressed. He looked up at John, his confusion evident at John's lack of recognition at the name. "Was this another gift?"

John folded his arms, his expression puzzled as he sifted through his memories of past gifts received. After a moment, his expression of concentration gave way to one of recognition, and with it an accompanying snort of laughter. "Oh God," John giggled, looking down at the fabric that James was caressing almost reverently. "I'd forgotten about that one…actually, I don't even remember packing it…never mind. Yeah, I suppose you could say it was a gift." He reached out, right palm facing upwards.

"Where did it come from?" James asked, reluctantly surrendering the tie to John's hand and tucking his own hands back into his pockets as was his habit.

"Sherlock nicked it from Mycroft." John hefted the tie lightly, admiring the weight of the Merlot-coloured silk. "Your uncle was being his usual insufferable self," he explained. "Kidnapped me—again—to try and force Sherlock into taking some case or another. Sherlock later barged into his office to retrieve me, and once there, decided a bit of revenge was in order."

James blinked, and John grinned in reminiscence. "Your dad has a bad habit of pick-pocketing people that annoy him," he explained. "I don't know how many of Greg's ID's he's acquired over the years for one perceived offence or another. At least a score by my count—enough to make a small stack, at least." He shot James a warning look at the preteen's speculative expression. "Don't do that, but the way. It's a bit not good, and Greg'd have Sherlock's hide." 

He waited, holding James' gaze steadily until James acquiesced, his chin jerking up reflexively. With a nod of his own, John turned back towards the mirror, wincing as his gaze fell on the clock. "Right. So," he asked, looping the band of silk around his collar, "how do I do this properly?"

"What sort of knot are you wanting?" James asked, stepping to John's side. "Simple? Classic? Easy?" Symmetrical? Formal, or something more casual?"

"How many different knots are there?" John asked in surprise. "I only know of the four-in-hand and the Windsor knot."

"According to a Swedish mathematician named Mikael Vejdemo-Johansson, there are one hundred, seventy-seven thousand, one hundred forty-seven different ways to knot a tie," James replied immediately, "which far surpasses the eight-five different ways recorded by Cambridge mathematicians, Thomas Fink and Yong Mao, in 1999." He shrugged, narrow shoulders rising and falling in a graceful wave. "Of course, not all of them look good," James continued, "but you can use them to send messages...like women do with lipstick? There was some movie a few years ago where a villain wore a tie with a backwards knot that was later christened the Merovingian knot because it was so intrinsic to his character. I read about it in an old magazine one night in Brasília when Sebastit—" James caught himself, swallowed, voice abruptly dropping. "Never mind."

John blinked, pursed his lips and shook his head. "Huh. I had no idea ties were so complex," he said, carefully not drawing attention to the mention of Moran's name. He shook his head again and then paused, narrowing his eyes in puzzlement at the other factoid James had uttered. "Wait...lipstick?"

James nodded, his eyes brightening again. "Yes. There was an article about it in one of the magazines Molly keeps in her office. I think it was called 'Scarlet woman or shrinking violet...what your lipstick says about you'? I read about it last week while I was waiting for Sherlock to finish examining a body. Did you know that she keeps three different types of hand cream and Sherbert Lemons in her desk? I didn't..."

John raised an eyebrow at the offhand mention of snooping, and James raised his chin defensively. "She said I could wait there, as long as I didn't take anything," he justified. "And there wasn't anything else for me to do, since she wouldn't let me into the morgue," the last was said with a decided pout. "I thought the magazine was exaggerating, so I asked her about it when she came back to check on me, and she said it was true, and she's done it before."

Seeing John's puzzled expression, James flushed, a crimson tide creeping over his normally pale cheeks. "Sherlock's always talking about the importance of proper observation," he began, his tone rising in agitation. "And if I'm ever going to understand girls, I need to be able to translate what they're _not_ saying, because I don't know, and that doesn't make me a pathe—"

"No, no, no" John said hurriedly, cutting him off before he could finish the self-directed insult. He held his hands up in a pacifying gesture. "I'm not criticizing you James. I'm not." 

At James' look of skepticism, John smiled encouragingly. "I'm serious. Hidden messages by lipstick shades? You're right. I remember something about Sherlock mentioning lipstick shades at a Christmas party a long time ago. Poor Molly...I'm not surprised she remembered that...it was quite awkward...for everybody." He shook his head at the memory, of Molly's humiliation, of Sherlock's unexpected (and unprompted) apology, before returning his attention to the suspicious boy standing before him. 

"James," John shifted, dropping his chin and gently encouraging James to meet his eyes, "I'm not taking the piss. That's useful trivia. But you?" John continued, voice warmly approving, "knowing that there are two hundred thousand different possible tie knots? That's…brilliant actually, really, and bloody smart." 

"One hundred, seventy-seven thousand, one hundred forty-seven different knots," James corrected him sourly, apparently pacified by John's compliments. "I have two thousand and forty six of them memorized…but I can only do eighty-five easily." The last part was admitted in a grudging undertone. 

"Jesus," John muttered under his breath, shaking his head in bemusement. "It's two hundred and forty-three types of tobacco ash all over again. You and your dad telling me off for rounding? The two of you are so damn alike, it's eerie." He gave James a reassuring grin at the boy's sidelong, skeptical, look. "I'm not mocking you James, I'm really not. I'm…" his gaze landed on the clock, and he swore. "Damn it. I'd love to learn more. But I've got to leave in a moment, so keep it simple, yeah?" 

"Windsor it is." 

"That's not simple!" John groused. 

"Yes it is, if you do it right and practice enough." Reaching up, James pulled the fabric free and repositioned it around John's collar. "The wide end of your tie should be on your left," he explained at John's look of confusion. "You have it backwards." 

"I'm left-handed, in case you forgot," John retorted. "There's a reason I put it on this way." 

James frowned and reached up, unknotting his own tie and flipping his shirt collar vertical. "Give me moment," he instructed, re-positioning the length of silk around his neck. He fiddled with the fabric for a moment, deft fingers pulling it and flipping it in movements that were almost too fast to follow, resulting in a perfectly symmetrical knot gracing his throat, before he pulled it free. Brow wrinkled in concentration, he draped the tie back around his neck, matching John's orientation and attempted to repeat the display, but his movements lacked their earlier grace. 

"That's weird," James complained, wrinkling his nose as he returned the tie to its former orientation. 

"No stranger than me being taught to shoot with my right hand," John responded, bemused by the display. "Just demonstrate, and I'll mirror you. I've had plenty of practice." 

Nodding, James rearranged the tie then looked up at John and winced. 

"What?" John demanded, obviously catching James' expression before he'd fought it back. "James, I have to leave soon." He looked down. "Is there something wrong with this one?" 

"No," James replied quickly. "It's fine. He reached over to tug the thin end of John's tie downwards. "You're starting it too high," he explained. "The rule of thumb is for the small end to rest just above your navel. If you start it there, it'll hang too low." He blinked once, disarmingly, and gave John a reassuring smile. 

"James…" John said warningly. 

James bit his lip, mask dropping. "It's…too long for your height," he admitted haltingly. His shoulders hunched inwards before he straightened them deliberately back. "It's a minor thing, really." He shot John a wary look. "I'm…sorry?" 

John leaned back against the bureau and quirked his lips. "Why are you sorry?" 

At James' expression, he shook his head and raised his hand. "Never mind. It's fine. It's all fine. You're hardly the first person to point out I'm short." He grinned ruefully. "Sherlock once made a crack about how me and his coat made him look taller." He paused, then shot James a sideways look. "How much too long?" 

James licked his lips nervously. "Um…three inches, maybe? British ties are generally 57", while the Italians tend to prefer 59". You probably need one that's 54", and that's obviously tailored to be extra long because Uncle Mycroft is so tall." He shrugged. "Ideally, when tied, the tip should just touch the center of your belt buckle. The narrow end should be completely hidden behind the wide end, and it shouldn't be tucked into your waistband, or covering your trouser zip." 

"Bloody tall Holmeses," John muttered, shaking his head in disgust. "Tell you what, James, after I get back, we'll set a time to go tie shopping. I know this isn't the last time I'm wearing a suit. For now though, let's focus on me getting out the door on time." 

With a nod, James stepped back and positioned his hands. "The wide end is the active end," he began, lifting it to indicate. "It should be the only one that moves. It's a common mistake, moving the narrow end, but it messes up the folds." 

John nodded and picked up the corresponding section. "Got it. Now what?" 

"Like this." James raised his chin, creating a clear line of sight. "Holding the wide end lightly so you don't accidentally crease the silk, lift it up and right and over the narrow end. Then up behind and to the center, ending with the active point at your chin…then over and through and down to the right." 

The back of John's neck prickled at the echo of a dead man's lilting vocal patterns in the cadence of James' instructions. Firmly repressing an involuntary shiver, John copied James' movements, carefully guiding the silk through the pattern dictated. 

"After you go right, bring it behind…back up from underneath…down to the left…wait," James frowned and dropped his hands. "What was that?" 

"What was what?" John asked, hands stopped in midair, brow furrowed in confusion. 

"What you just did. You're supposed to go under, not over." 

"I am?" 

James rolled his eyes. "You're combining a Windsor with a four-in-hand. No wonder you need my help." 

"Oi!" John mock-glowered. "No snide remarks!" He undid the most recent loop and paused again. "Behind?" 

James shook his head. "Start again. You've pulled the narrow end too high again." 

John sighed and did as he was told, repeating the pattern James had just demonstrated. 

"Behind, up the center…yes…good. Now pull it tight by pulling down on the wide end, and slide it up to adjust it." 

"Better?" John asked, dropping his hands to his side and turning to face James fully. 

Dark brown eyes surveyed his efforts critically, before nodding in grudging acceptance. "Better," James acknowledged. 

"Good," John exhaled. "That's good." With a final, cursory glance in the mirror, he turned and grabbed his suit jacket from the bed where it had been lying beside his briefcase. Shrugging it on, John frowned, looking for his keys. 

"They're on the hook by the door, and your mobile is on the dresser still," James supplied, shoving his hands into his pockets. 

"Ta, thank you," John replied, shoving the phone into his trouser pocket and picking up the black briefcase. 

"What time will you be back?" James asked, following him from the bedroom. 

"Hopefully before six," John answered, setting the case down briefly so he could don his overcoat. "Mrs. Hudson is downstairs though, if you need her," he continued, "and Sherlock should be home soon…" His voice trailed off, taking in James' fidgety posture, the abandoned e-reader on the sofa and wistful glance the preteen shot at the door. "James," he said slowly, "did you want to come with me?" 

James' gaze shot back to him, his expression hopeful. "May I?" He flushed. "If it's not any trouble? I had fun when I accompanied you last time, and how we stopped for lunch and got chips afterward, but if you don't want me to come with you, I can just…" his voice trailed off at John's bemused smile. 

"I just don't want to hear you complaining about being bored," John warned with a mock glower. 

"No, sir," James promised with a grin, reaching up to don his Belstaff, the miniature twin of Sherlock's own. 

"After we're done," John continued, "we can grab a takeaway from somewhere to bring back to the flat, and Sherlock." 

"May we get Indian?" James asked eagerly. "Sherlock introduced me to samosas…the vegetarian ones are really good…and I know Sherlock likes Butter Chicken and naan…. 

John blinked, and paused in thought, thinking of where his solicitor was located in relation to Sherlock's preferred eateries. "Yes…" he said after a moment, "the Rajdoot isn't too far out of our way, and I know that the owner is a fan of Sherlock's. Speaking of, text him, would you?" John instructed. "Let him know you're coming with me." 

With one last look around the flat, John ushered James through the door and pulled it shut behind them, before the two of them clattered down the stairs together. 

"Oh, and James?" John waited until the boy looked back up at him. 

"Yes?" 

"After dinner, if you have time, maybe you could teach me another one of those tie knots?" 

James grinned shyly. "I will, if you show me the proper way to apply medical tape to close wounds." 

"Deal."

~ Fin ~ 

**Author's Note:**

> I love doing research, and as a result, I know a LOT more about ties than I did previously. Special thanks to [Sherlockology](http://www.sherlockology.com/) for the fashion reference resources, and also to [Ivy Blossom](http://ivyblossom.tumblr.com/) for her super-helpful ['Punctuating Dialogue In English: A Fanfiction How-To'](http://ivyblossom.tumblr.com/post/105738247150/punctuating-dialogue-in-english-a-fanfiction.com/). The calculated number of tie knots is true, as are the mentions of tie facts, fabrics, knot instructions, and other random tie trivia. [The lipstick article is also real. ](http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-1192698/Scarlet-woman-shrinking-violet--lipstick-says-you.html)
> 
> I welcome typo notifications and feedback about formatting. I'm on [tumblr](http://dulcimergecko.tumblr.com/) if you want to drop me a message, and thanks for reading!


End file.
